Rushdie blasts publisher for pulling book
Salman Rushdie strongly criticized his publisher for pulling a historical novel about the prophet Muhammad and his child bride over concerns about angering Muslims.
Rushdie, whose “The Satanic Verses” led to a death decree in 1989 from Iran’s Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini and forced the author for years to live under police protection, said the Random House Publishing Group had allowed itself to be intimidated.
“I am very disappointed to hear that my publishers, Random House, have canceled another author’s novel, apparently because of their concerns about possible Islamic reprisals,” Rushdie said. “This is censorship by fear, and it sets a very bad precedent indeed.”
Random House has acknowledged pulling Sherry Jones’ debut novel, “The Jewell of Medina.” The publisher, which had planned to release the book this month, said in a statement that “credible and unrelated sources” had warned that the book “could incite acts of violence by a small, radical segment.”
Rushdie’s last several books, including “Fury” and “Shalimar the Clown,” have been released by Random House. He was published by Viking Penguin at the time “The Satanic Verses” came out in 1988. Viking Penguin, which received numerous bomb threats, continued to publish the hardcover but hesitated to release the paperback. It was eventually put out by a coalition of writers, publishers and human rights organizations. The Associated Press
First Lines
The Shadow of Reichenbach Falls by John R. King
You can’t expect a day to end well when it begins in negotiations with a rat.
We stood there, the rat and I, beside a fragrant rubbish heap behind a cheese shop in Meringen, Switzerland. Both of us eyed a large, moldy chunk of Gruyere that the cheese seller had recently tossed out. I was using a stick to argue that I deserved this breakfast, and the rat was using his front teeth in rebuttal. He was a lean, mangy critter, with one blind eye and a lame forepaw, and he argued that this cheese would be his only meal today.
But the same was true for me — the bit about the meal, not about being blind or lame. I was a bit mangy, though. I was twenty-one and skinny, with a few bits of hay clinging to my black hair from the loft where I had spent the night. When I’d quit Cambridge in 1890, I’d weighed two stone more, but my travels on the Continent had reduced me to skin and bone. My only resources now were a tattered Russian greatcoat and a rucksack with a change of clothes, a matchbox, a slingshot, and assorted tools. For a year, I had lived by my wits, my scientific prowess, and my genial nature — which meant that I was desperate for that cheese.
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